


The Second Chance

by Lumeriel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Incest, M/M, Minor Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Time Travel Fix-It, kind of slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28509171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeriel/pseuds/Lumeriel
Summary: After the death of Maedhros, Námo gives Fëanor a second chance - a chance to do better, to go back to the past, before it all started. Things do not end exactly as Námo expected.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Comments: 18
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, Nelly, for beta-ing this! You're my Lalwen -if I haven't said before, Lalwen is my fave elf-girl.

_No right. After everything I did ... after everything I demanded of others... I have no right. After everything I gave for you, you…! Damn hell stone! This... this_ _is_ _what I have now... pain... pain! So strong! It burns!_ _I do not want it!_ _I do not want to feel it anymore! I do not want to suffer, father! Why? Why did you condemn me to this? Did you not love me? Did you love your stones more? ... Finno. Finno, my love, are you waiting for me? I am_ _coming to_ _you, my love. Please wait for me. This time ... nothing will stop me from reaching you._

The pain was so bad it took his breath away. The scream tore at his throat, an infinite scream which squeezed his diaphragm as his skin and bones melted, diluted. Lava covered his mouth, his nose… and he was still screaming as the darkness engulfed him in agonizing heat.

He opened his eyes, panting loudly. The icy floor against his skin snapped him back to reality and a grateful sob shook his shoulders. He crawled until he could rest his burning cheek on the flagstones.

A dream. _A nightmare_. The pain of his body melting into liquid fire had been just another nightmare...

Realization hit him. Jumping on hands and feet, he roared into space.

"Nelyooooo!"

“He is not here.”

Fëanor whirled around like a beast, showing his teeth. He threw himself against the figure hovering a few inches off the ground and, like so many times before, smashed through the shape and against the wall. Ignoring the blood that spurted from his broken nose, he spun on his heels and attacked again.

"Enough," ordered the figure.

Thorny vines emerged from the ground. They encircled the elf’s feet up to his knees and then rose further, to his thighs, hips, and torso.

“Damn!” howled Fëanor, struggling in the tight embrace of the brambles that ripped at his skin. “What did you do to him? What did you do to my son?”

“Me?” the other repeated, with apparent bewilderment. “May I remind you of his words?” He parted his lips and modulated, expressionless: " _I do not want to suffer anymore, father! Why? Why did you condemn me to this? Did you not love me? Did you love your stones more? …”_

‘Fëanor gritted his teeth as the voice of his eldest son rose from the Vala’s blue lips

"Enough," he ordered, furious and hurt. “Enough, Námo.”

"As you wish," agreed the Vala of Death, returning to his usual voice. “I only wanted to point out who Maitimo blamed for his fate. After all, I didn't take an oath.”

“Where is he?” Fëanor demanded, ignoring his last words. “I want to see him.”

"He does not want to see you. I would not want to either, certainly. Do you realize to what you condemned your children? And everyone who loved you?

“My children. Only my children ...”

"Can you really say that only your children loved you, son of Finwë?"

Fëanor felt a knot in his chest. His father. The memory of his father shattered by Morgoth had haunted him during his mad flight to Endor and beyond.

Like a flash, another face appeared in his mind. Another scene that Námo showed him so long ago.

_Fingolfin_. Fingolfin standing before the grave that his children built for him - a grave in which no body rested. Fingolfin kneeling slowly, sinking his hands - no longer soft and beautiful, but marked by the cold, by the teeth of unknown beasts, and crossed by scars - into the earth as if he could touch a body that did not sleep there. Fingolfin bending down to kiss the ground with his face always serene, always distant, the perfect marble mask of his. Fingolfin whispering to a deaf land: 'I am here, brother. As I promised, I followed you. And _I will follow you to the end_.'

_Fingolfin..._

Fëanor shook his head, trying to push the memories away; but like a whirlwind, images of Fingon waiting for Gothmog's ax, of Aredhel dying as poison gnawed at her flesh, of Turgon falling with his beloved city, of Angrod and Aegnor being devoured by flames, of Finrod fighting Sauron... flooded his mind.

"They did not deserve that fate."

Námo's face, painted white with blue tears running down his cheeks, did not show any disturbance. Leaning his head on one shoulder, the god inquired, tonelessly:

“What did you say? I could not hear you well.”

"I said they did not deserve that fate!" roared Fëanor. “Not my children, not my father ... not Fingolfin. The idiot was just… keeping his promise to me.”

“Debatable. Fingolfin killed as many Teleri as you did in Alqualondë,” Námo declared. He raised his hands in front of his face and did some math. “In fact, a few more. For someone who is looking for peace and… understanding, your brother has an incredible talent for war. It makes one wonder what would have become of him had he been born on Endor, under the shadow of Thangorodrim.”

"I am pleased to see that our pain brings you pleasure, oh mighty Mandos," the elf pointed out sarcastically.

"It does not. If it were the case, I would not be troubling myself with your destiny as I am doing now.”

“You are always in here, gloating over my suffering.”

"Do you suffer, son of Serindë?" Námo asked, and for the first time, his expression changed, to show curiosity. “Do you suffer because of what your actions caused?”

“My actions? You keep blaming me alone for everything that happened. Morgoth destroyed the Trees! Morgoth murdered my father! Morgoth stole the silmarils! And you were the one to pronounce the Doom!”

"It was you who drew a sword at your brother's neck."

Fëanor held back the words of rage that came to his lips.

"Fingolfin was not completely innocent in that event," he snapped.

"Fingolfin is not here to answer that. But you said something interesting today, son of Finwë. You said they did not deserve this. If you could save them from such fate, would you?”

Fëanor frowned. Anger slowly faded to give way to curiosity.

“What do you mean? It already ... There is no way to change what happened.”

Námo's pale eyes lit up and his mouth curled, showing the pointed teeth of a cat.

"Oh! Time. Time and its irrevocability are concepts so… human, so elven. You cannot go back, they say. You cannot change the past, they say. You cannot undo a mistake, they say. What is time for a god? It is nothing more than a mechanism, a concept ... a theory. Time ... is an hourglass.” An hourglass materialized in his long, jeweled-fingered hands. “Sand falls until time is consumed. When it is done, you turn it over…” He did so as he fixed his mocking gaze on the elf, “and it begins again. The same sand. Again…and again.”

Fëanor blinked, stunned. 

“These…? Are you saying you can ...?”

"Go back in time and give you a second chance? I have waited eons to do this.”

“Why…? Why me? Why not any of ...?”

“Because what they would change would not affect the final result. Maedhros would not embark with you, Curufin would not speak out against Finrod, Celegorm would save Dior's children, Caranthir would not let Haleth go, Amrod and Amras would stay home with Nerdanel… Fingolfin…” He grimaced. “I hope that a second chance would help you to better value your brothers, son of Finwë.”

"So you're giving me the chance to save...”

"I am giving you the chance to protect those you love, Curufinwë Fëanáro. But also to learn that you were never alone. Do you want this chance, son of Finwë? There will not be a third, I assure you. But be warned, your change of actions could also lead to a worse fate for you and yours.”

Fëanor regarded the Vala with narrowed eyes, suspicious.

“Why are you doing this? What do you win?”

“Fun? I like to see the world unfold before my eyes. There is not much to look at in my abode. On the other hand, since your arrival, my home has rapidly been filled with screams and pleas that hurt the sensitive ears of my maiar. Many of them would prefer calm and silence to return. So, son of Finwë, do you take my offer?”

"Do I have another option?"

Námo raised an eyebrow.

"To stay here for a few more millennia. I assure you that your family's suffering has not ended. Fingon left a beautiful son as his heir and Celebrimbor… is your grandson not beautiful? Worthy of attracting a god’s attention.” 

Fear clenched Fëanor's throat. For a moment, he was unable to breathe.

"Whatever," he moaned in a muffled voice. “I will do whatever it takes to save them. Just tell me…”

“Easy. It will be like falling asleep. You will remember everything, but no one else will. You must be smart, Fëanor. You cannot face Melkor alone and you cannot reveal what you know to anyone. The moment you do, you will return to this present. That is my only condition.”

"What about the other Valar? Will they agree ...?”

"You always accused us of intervening in the life of the Elves. You would be surprised how little some of us pay attention to them.” Námo shrugged. “However, for your peace of mind, only you and I will remember what has happened. In fact, I will not exactly remember it.”

"You will have 'foreseen' it," Fëanor realized.

“Something like that. After all, that is my power according to your kind.” Námo smiled, again showing his feline teeth.

For a moment, Fëanor considered the god's words. An idea began to form in his mind.

“Are you ready?”

The question forced the noldo to leave his analysis for another time. So soon? He believed that the Vala would have some arrangement to make first.

"When are you going to send me back?" he demanded, nervousness twisting his stomach in spite of himself.

"At a time where the curse was still not inevitable."

Fëanor thought of his childhood and Námo arched an eyebrow.

"How ignorant you are, son of Serindë," he scoffed. “You will be surprised, without a doubt. See you in the past.”

“Wait! I want to know ... what does Fingolfin regret?”

Much later, he would wonder why he wanted to know just that.

At his question, Námo allowed the smile to widen on his face until he seemed too large.

“Nothing. Indis's son does not regret anything.”

The last thing Fëanor saw was Námo's smile floating in the void.

…………………………… ..

Wide-eyed, Fëanor laid down. His gaze was fixed on the canopy that surrounded the bed and his head rested on one bent arm. The sheet caressed his naked body. Fëanor had been awake for a few minutes, filling his senses with every detail. This was his bedroom, his bedroom in the royal palace, in his father's house, and if he was there, it was because the sword incident had not yet occurred. In fact, if he was in the palace, the incident with the sword was probably a few years away, for he and his children had moved entirely to Formenos long before that day.

Finally, he sat up and stretched his feet off the bed. He gazed at the gold bracelet around his ankle and the cluttered clothes at the foot of the bed. Evidently, there had been some kind of celebration the night before, he realized as he searched his memory for one of the last parties he had participated in at the royal palace. He half-turned his torso to scan the room again: there was no sign of another person, so that made it clear that Nerdanel had not slept with him. So, a holiday after the fall apart. He grimaced as he got to his feet. Normally, Nerdanel attended parties in the palace, invited by Lalwen and Anairë; but after their marriage ended, Mahtan's daughter kept a prudent distance from him, occupying another room - usually close to Lalwen.

With a sigh, he finally got to his feet and went to the bathroom, shuffling feet. He had no choice but to leave the bedroom and face the past: he could not find himself in time - a time when it was still possible to avoid all the misfortunes that would occur later, according to Námo; but he could not remember a time when he was in the palace and the closeness of his half-siblings was even bearable.

He did not linger in the bathroom, eager to begin to understand what was going on in the head of the Keeper of Souls to have sent him to this specific moment. Without thinking much about it, he made his way to Maedhros's bedroom.

It had been strange to think of his son with a name that he never gave him in life. Yet for so long he was Maedhros for everyone - Maedhros in songs, Lord Maedhros in Councils, Prince Maedhros in festivals, Maedhros the Tall in stories - that he now found it difficult to use once again the names that identified him in Tirion. He wondered if his eldest son would ever become known by a Sindarin name. 

He did not bother to knock on the door and turning the knob, he entered the cabinet that preceded his son's bedroom. He paused for a second when the feeling of _dejá vu_ hit him, but he had done this himself so many times that he shook it in disdain and advanced toward the mahogany door inlaid with obsidian and beryl. 

A soft, boyish laugh reached him, pinning him to the spot. He knew that laugh: he had heard it too many times under his own roof, he had heard it during his visits to the palace, always around Maedhros.

A murmur followed laughter and Fëanor Fëanor’s suspicion of the date he had returned to was confirmed: it was the day after Fingon's coming of age celebration. How was he so sure? Today was the day he discovered the true relationship between Maedhros and Fingon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to Nelly for beta reading this. Oh, you don't know what you've gotten yourself into, my dear!

The white door, studded with tiny white gold stars and diamonds, opened from the inside.

"We have to talk," Fëanor snapped before his half-brother could show surprise at his presence.

In two steps, he crossed the threshold and walked across the room, pausing when he realized that Fingolfin had not moved from his position by the door. He spun on the spot, frowning, and pursed his lips as his gaze fell on his half-brother.

Fingolfin was still standing by the door, which he finally closed with slow movements. The High Prince's perfectly straight black hair hung loose to his thighs, settling on the blue silk robe with embroidered white and red cranes.

Slowly, Fingolfin turned in front of Fëanor and clasping his hands in front of him, said in a gentle voice:

"Welcome, Curufinwë. Make yourself at home, please.”

Fëanor did not blink, staring at him.

It had been so many years - hundreds by the count of the Years of the Sun - since he had last seen his half-brother... alive, not an image displayed by Mandos. Alive and… cold as a fucking statue of ice. And beautiful. Fuck! He had forgotten that his siblings had inherited Indis's ravishing beauty - even Fingolfin, who was the closest to Finwë among ...

Finwë!

The memory of his father took his breath away. Alive. Somewhere in the palace, at that moment, his father was alive.

Without thinking, blindly, he lunged for the door to leave the room, to run in search of his father.

"It was a pleasure talking to you, Curufinwë. As usual.”

Fingolfin's soft voice stopped him when he opened the door.

Fingolfin.

He had come to deal with Fingolfin. Because Námo had assured that even at this stage it was possible to avoid the events that lead in the conviction of his entire family. He had to focus on Fingolfin and… on understanding what exactly he could do at this point in time when all the troubles started long before, the day Finwë got married for the second time.

With an effort, he forced himself to close the door again and turned slowly.

“We need to talk. About our sons.”

If he had not been looking at him, Fëanor would have missed the glint that passed through Fingolfin's blue eyes. He frowned, wondering what that glow he rarely saw in the gaze of his half-brother meant.

For a moment, the memory of the first time he lived through this day floated through his mind. He remembered entering Maedhros's bedroom, discovering the two young men entwined in an intimate embrace between the rumpled sheets... and bursting into furious screams that attracted his other children and Fingolfin. He remembered that his half-brother had tried to appease him, begging him to lower his voice, to calm down so they could talk about what was happening... He remembered Maedhros begging him to listen to him, to understand, to allow him to explain, to explain how much they loved each other. He remembered how his firstborn lost his patience and ended up screaming as well, ensuring that he would not leave his beloved, his mate… He remembered his response...

‘I prefer that you live alone, that you never know love, that you never have a family, rather than see you with this… this creature!’

Fingon never returned to his house. Maedhros never spoke of romance or marriage again. Fingolfin ...

Fingolfin. Now Fëanor remembered how Fingolfin's expression had changed as soon as he had spoken those words: he remembered the hardness in his gaze, the way his mouth of sensual pink lips had tightened, the shadow that had veiled his exquisite features…

Understanding made its way into his mind. It had been that. That had been the last straw for Fingolfin's patience. It had been with those words that Fëanor had finally destroyed the hope of the son of Indis. All the other children of Indis and Finwë had surrendered long before: Finarfin had been refusing to let his children visit the house of Fëanor; Lalwen had stopped trying to talk to him; Findis had never even tried. But Fingolfin had kept insisting on building a bridge where only an abyss had existed. Or maybe not. Maybe it hadn’t been an abyss, not before Fëanor had included Fingon in his contempt and hatred.

"You know," he said slowly.

Fingolfin crossed his arms over his chest and sighed deeply, silently.

"What do I know, Curufinwë? I assure you that, believe it or not, I also studied at the Academy, so I learned a few things.”

Fëanor experienced the familiar pang of violence that his half-brother's sarcasm always aroused. The answer that came to his lips was stopped by a new sensation: an unexpected warmth tugged at his stomach.

"Ma… Nelyo and… your son," he explained, stunned by the emotion he refused to acknowledge.

Fingolfin stared at him for so long that Míriel's son began to feel uncomfortable. When he started to consider that he might be wrong, Fingolfin uncrossed his arms and stepped past him.

"Accept a drink, please, Curufinwë. We both drank a lot yesterday and we need to have a clear head for this conversation.”

Fëanor spun on his heels. He only hesitated a second before following his half-brother through the small door that led to the private den.

He had never been here in his previous life, he realized in amazement. He froze, staring at the ebony and mother-of-pearl furnishings, the shelves with tightly packed books, the lamps depicting female spirits of the forest holding lights in their hands, the documents spread out on the desk. A brief glance allowed him to recognize some plans - those of the aqueduct that in a few years would be approved by the Council.

Paying no heed to his obvious discomfort - as if it were natural for him to be there - Fingolfin walked over to a credence and poured two glasses of golden wine. Only when he returned to face him and handed him the goblet did Fëanor realize that his half-brother was wearing nothing but the blue silk robe.

"I'm going to guess," Fingolfin began as he took a high-backed chair and crossed one leg over the other, making sure to keep the garment closed. “You broke into Russandol's bedroom ... and you saw something you should not see.”

Naked. The correct and distant perfect prince of Tirion was naked under that luxurious silk robe. Naked. Was Fingolfin sleeping naked?!

"I did not break into my son's room. He is my son, by Eru! He is…”

“An adult. For as long as I have been. Russandol is old enough for you to respect his privacy. Did you let him know you were there?”

“Of course not! I have no interest in seeing your kid naked!”

Something he had already done in his past life, he remembered. Something that had made an impression on him that was difficult to describe. And now Fingolfin was sitting very calm, facing him, drinking his wine, naked. He took a long drink and squeezed the glass in his hand. Of course he could not see anything - and he did not want to either! - but the idea itself was…

"I never hinted that you wanted to. And Findekáno is no longer a kid.”

No, he certainly was not. Despite his best intentions, the image of that scene thousands of years ago appeared in Fëanor's mind. Even then, Fingon was a handsome male, with exquisite muscles and dark skin that betrayed his ancestry. So long later, he could blamelessly admit that he was a sight to see, but that he was not interested in seeing again. If he now saw Fingolfin naked, would he look anything like Fingon? Without a doubt, it would be a much more beautiful image than the broken and torn body of the one who was sung as "the most powerful of kings ..."

"No…" He forced himself back to the present. “Do you not care?”

“Should I?” Fingolfin raised an eyebrow. “My nephew is very dear here at home… as are all your children.”

"I know," he admitted reluctantly. “But… are you not worried about the consequences?”

"What consequences?"

Fëanor pursed his lips. He was doing it on purpose, was he not? It was not possible that Fingolfin — Fingolfin! the politician! the prince of the Council! – would ignore the profound disgust that same-sex elven relationships caused in Tirion. It was impossible for Fingolfin to forget how any mention of same-sex unions had been erased from the history books, from society …

"Oh.”

This was a day of discovery. He recalled how Fingolfin had not hesitated to support the young people in their relationship. He remembered how in Beleriand the marriage between both princes was known to all.

"You will… face them," he murmured, fascinated. “You will face anyone who goes against them.”

And he had no idea why that surprised him when he was talking about the elf who would ride to the gates of hell and face a god.

"I think you may have noticed that our children are deeply discreet. Even you were ignorant of their relationship.”

Fëanor felt a stab of pain. True. His own son — his firstborn, his dearest — had hidden the inclinations of his heart from him, he had not trusted him… and he had been so right.

Silently, he reached out the hand that held the glass and waited. Fingolfin took the bottle and refilled Fëanor’s glass, also without speaking.

“What will we do?” he asked after taking a long drink to loosen the lump in his throat.

"What do you want to do, Curufinwë?"

Fëanor looked up into the blue eyes of his half-brother. Nobody looked at him the way Fingolfin did: as if he admired him, but did not fear him; as an equal. He realized that he had missed that calm in someone's gaze. He realized that he had missed someone calling him 'Curufinwë'.

"I want my son to trust me," he finally answered.

Fingolfin blinked slowly - his only show of surprise.

**Author's Note:**

> It will be short, I promise it will be short even though it says 'slow burn'. I will not stop writing Dance of Swords, I promise - it is my future silmaril; but in the meantime, I had to get this idea out of my head. 
> 
> I don't promise regular updates: I can't do it because my job is getting more and more complicated - I haven't celebrated New Year yet, in fact. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this. There will be sex, misunderstandings, and quite a bit of Russingon to lift our spirits.


End file.
